


A Dead Man

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [9]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Don't copy to another site, Great Hiatus, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Near Death Experiences, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: After Moriarty's death, Holmes begins his long exile.This is part of a Victorian AU. Each part can be read separately, but the overall story arc will make more sense of read in order.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	A Dead Man

**Author's Note:**

> Previously: Watson and Holmes flee England; Scotland Yard captures part of Moriarty's gang, but Moriarty follows them to Switzerland and confronts Holmes at Reichenbach Falls. Believing Holmes dead, Watson returns to London, where Sebastian Moran begins a campaign to discredit Holmes and have Watson tried for fraud, conspiracy, and gross indecency. Mycroft dies; Watson is convicted and sent to prison.

The Norsemen used to believe that when a man is dying, he must tell a joke to Death, to show that he is not afraid.

There are many ways a man might die.

He might go headfirst over a cliff, into a waterfall, struggling with his arch-enemy.

He might be shot at as he climbs out of said waterfall, just as he gets a leg hold on the path.

A boulder might fall from above, landing within inches of where he found his footing.

He might be shot at again as he runs into the woods without a single coin in his pocket, with only the clothes on his back.

He might almost bleed out hiding inside a hollow tree, waiting for his pursuers to give up and leave.

He might walk for hours until he passes out from blood loss, waking days later in an unfamiliar home, being cared for by strangers as an infection ravages his body.

Here is my joke for Death: any one of these events might have killed me, but I survived them all. Even so, I am dead.

When I awakened, I did not remember at first what had happened to me or where I was. I smelled disinfectant and medicine, but knew I was not in any of the hospitals in London. I might have been saying John’s name as I rose to consciousness, calling for him and reaching for his hand. I expected him, and was bereft when I couldn’t find him.

A fever had me, and I tossed in my bed. Sometimes a cool hand rested on my forehead, and then I would murmur his name, begging him not to leave me. Sometimes a woman was there, wiping my face with cool towels. She would urge me to drink, putting a cup to my lips.

It was many days before I opened my eyes and asked where I was.

My host was Niklaus Caspari, a soft-spoken doctor who kept a small clinic serving several mountain villages. He explained that I had been found unconscious in the woods outside of the village and was brought to him on a cart. It was by mere, improbable chance that I’d been found; the people who happened upon me might not have cut through the woods, might have instead chosen another way back to the village, and then I would have died overnight, too weak with blood loss to find shelter when the temperatures dropped to near freezing.

Caspari was considerably older than John Watson, but he had something of the same calm, undemonstrative manner about him. He did not pry, did not seem put off by my Berliner accent, and conversed equally well in French or in German.

When I was well enough to talk, he asked me my name.

“Jacques Renard.” This was the identity I’d chosen for myself. Because of my grandmother, my French was good enough that I might pass for a native of France.

He smiled. “Der Fuchs.”*

I was very weak and had fallen into a fever because my wound was infected. Caspari told me that I might have lost my leg, and for a few days he worried that I would die. But the infection abated, leaving me too feeble to walk or even stand for some days. I would live, he said, barring any further gunshots.

The woman, his daughter, asked me, “Who is John?”

“My friend,” I said. “He’s a doctor.”

“You weep when you dream of him.” She smiled with sympathy, but did not ask more.

Often, I thought of my John, remembering how he had come to me weak from an infection and limping because of shrapnel in his thigh. The scar on his shoulder was impressive, but the leg pained him more when the weather was cold. I was now similarly impaired, worn out by my illness with a leg that ached. I wondered if I would need a cane. 

If he knew I was hiding something, Caspari did not say. He tended my dressings and checked my vital signs, asking no questions about how I might have been wounded, where I came from, or who might be looking for me. One day he brought home a newspaper and showed it to me, and I read of my own demise at Reichenbach. The article featured a sketch of me that had been made some time ago. Silently, he watched me reading.

“Foxes have dens, and birds have nests,” he said when I looked up.**

“I will go as soon as I’m able to walk.” I did not want to be a burden or a danger to this kind man and his daughter. A man tracked by ruthless hunters may be a grateful guest, but he is not a welcome one.

“It’s no trouble,” he replied. “Lay your head here for as long as you need. Leave when you are strong, not sooner.”

I was beginning to form a plan. The telegram I’d received from Mycroft on our arrival in Meiringen had indicated that the raid was not a success, though he was not sure at that time how badly it had failed. Our contingency plan was for me and John to go to Milan, where I might communicate with him. I was to let him know when I arrived there. But that was weeks ago. Surely, when he did not hear from me, he thought me dead. A new plan was needed.

My mother’s family still lived west of Paris, and would take me in, I thought. With their assistance, I might contact Mycroft and let him know what had happened. My brother would know what to do then, and could wire me money. Perhaps Caspari would lend me enough to buy a train ticket and other necessities. I could pay him back once I reached safety. I did not ask him yet, though.

He was a pleasant man, very learned, and I appreciated both his kindness and his company. Because I was aware that there might still be men looking for me, suspecting I had survived, I spent my days indoors, only occasionally taking coffee with him in the small garden behind his clinic.

One day, however, he persuaded me to walk with him. It was dusk, and the shadows were lengthening.

“You must get some exercise,” he said, “If you are to be fully well.”

I had to agree with this. Though my wound was mostly healed and the infection gone, I was in no shape to walk a long distance, let alone run.

The village was larger than I’d thought. He showed me the road I’d been brought in on, and I got my bearings. He was born in Germany, he said, near Stuttgart, and had come to this village after he married. His wife had been gone for years, having died of influenza. His daughter, Anna, was their only child. She appeared to be at least thirty, so I assumed that he was in his fifties, maybe as old as sixty. He walked with energy, consciously slowing his pace to accommodate my limp.

The following day, a newspaper arrived with a story from London. The raid was old news; now an investigation was being held over Moriarty’s death, which his brother claimed had been planned by certain members of the government in order to cover up the doings of one Sherlock Holmes who, according to unnamed sources, had organised a conspiracy against the man with a goal of bolstering his (my) reputation. It all seemed specious, but implausibility has never stopped people from investigating. What drew my attention was the mention of my brother’s name. It was suggested that he had conspired with me to kill Moriarty, and was now under scrutiny by a committee which had been organised to determine what had actually happened. The head of the committee was one Sebastian Moran, a member of parliament and a former colonel in Her Majesty’s Army. I knew him as Moriarty’s second in command.

As I was digesting this, contemplating how quickly the matter might blow over, and how soon I might be able to count on Mycroft’s help to extricate myself, Caspari came into the sitting room holding an envelope, a dark look on his face.

“Bah!” he exclaimed, tossing the letter on the desk. “People are such cowards.”

“What is it?” I asked.

He handed the letter to me. “Read, and tell me what you think.”

 _Dr Caspari_ (it read, in German):

_You are harbouring a dangerous man. If you do not wish harm to come to you or your daughter, you must turn him out. It is out of concern for you that we give you this choice, but now that you are aware, you must take action. You have three days to give him up. If you do not, you will become the target of those who seek this criminal. The consequences to you and your family will be dire._

_A friend._

“Friend!” he exclaimed. “This is no friend. Any friend of mine would not hesitate to sign his name.”

“What will you do?”

“Ignore it,” he said. “These people are bluffing. If they had cause for concern, they would have gone to the police already. They are gangsters, I believe, not honest men. I will go to the police myself before heeding such threats.”

“You’ve been kind to me, Caspari,” I said. “But I don’t want you or your daughter to risk yourselves for my sake. I will leave tonight.”

He shook his head. “You are not ready to go. Until you are stronger, you must stay. There are people here who will defend you.”

“These men are ruthless, my friend. They are the ones who pursued me and wounded me. I regret not saying something sooner, but I was trusting that I was safe. Apparently, they have found me, and as a result you are in danger. I will leave tonight.”

He sighed and gave me a frank look. “Mr Holmes,” he said quietly. “It has been my privilege to conceal you these past weeks. I will give you money, food, clothing, whatever you need.”

I did not ask how he knew my name. He was an intelligent man, as I said. “Do you have a map?”

He did, and we spread it out on the table between us. “I recommend that you go south, to Italy. From there, perhaps east, to Hungary. You may have family in France, but you will be watched. No doubt your pursuers already know about your family, and are watching them to see if you will go there. You must be the fox now, and outwit them until they lose your trail.” He traced a route for me on the map.

With the help of a friend, he had me carried out of town in a wagon, covered with a tarp. His friend showed me a little known path I might use to bypass the nearest village and arrive at a more populous town where I would be able to catch a train. This I was able to do, and did not see anyone following me, though that did not tempt me to relax my caution. I took a train to Geneva, where I hid for several days before taking another train to Milan.

I boarded the train, disguised as an elderly Italian priest. The train was not crowded. I had managed to find myself an empty carriage and settled in, calming myself by practicing my Italian, reading a battered volume of Dante I had found in a bookshop.

“Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria,” I recited. _There is no greater sorrow then to recall our times of joy in wretchedness.***_

My descent from the falls had taken me far, but not quite so far as Hell. I lacked only a guide to help me find my way to safety. It occurred to me that the road to safety might lead through Hell.

Another passenger entered the carriage then, and I quickly opened my Bible and began peering at it near-sightedly at a page, moving my lips as I pretended to read the Latin. All the while, I was watching my companion, my habit of deduction not forgotten.

He was a man of about fifty, nearly as tall as me, but heavy-set. Black hair turning grey, heavy moustache, a muscular build, a face weathered by the sun. A soldier, a sportsman. It was the face that drew my attention, and I had to restrain myself from looking up from my book and examining it fully. It was both virile and sensual, a man who might have once had the capacity to be good or evil, to become a philosopher or a criminal, and had chosen the darker way. A cruel face, I thought, the eyes cynical and hard, his features aggressive and threatening. He appeared not to heed me, but stared out the window.

I continued my ruse, mumbling from time to time as I read, my eyes flicking towards him, trying to gauge the threat I was certain he embodied.

The train pulled out of the station and gathered speed. As we drew away from the village and into the countryside, he turned to me and spoke.

“Well, Mr Holmes.” He smiled savagely.

“Colonel Moran,” I said. “Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, as they say. I believe it was you who dropped a boulder, attempting to kill me at the falls.”

“You have not won the game,” he replied. “You must give it up before you owe more than you can pay.”

“Moriarty is dead, and I am not. I may not have won, but neither have I lost the game.”

“But you have,” he said fiercely. “You are a dead man. You may walk and talk like the living, but this is an illusion. You are as dead as if you had fallen to the bottom of Reichenbach.”

I was afraid, but laughed. “Are you going to shoot me here, on the train? Or will you take me somewhere else, where my body will never be discovered?”

“Neither,” he said, his eyes glinting coldly. “I’m not going to kill you at all, Holmes. You will live, if you are clever enough to figure out how to survive. No one will lay a hand on you. You can sleep easy at night, knowing that you will waken to another day. But you can never return, never see your family again, never hold your lover—“ He spat this word— “You can never be Sherlock Holmes again.”

I waited while he took a cigar out of his case, trimmed the end, and lit it.

“If you try,” he continued, fixing me with a predatory look, “If you attempt to contact anyone, make yourself known to anyone, or interfere in any way with our plans, I will know, and I will take down every single person you care about.” He chuckled. “To keep them safe, you must remain dead.”

“Why? If you fear my influence this much, why not simply kill me?”

“I do not fear you, Holmes,” he said, drawing on the cigar and sending a cloud of blue smoke upwards. “You over-estimate your importance. Moriarty considered you a nuisance, no more. Your doctor, your brother, your housekeeper— even that dim-witted inspector at Scotland Yard who calls you when he can’t solve it himself— these are your pressure points. Simply killing you would provide me with no amusement. Instead, the game continues.”

“The great Shikari hunts again,” I murmured. I was his tiger, and he would continue tracking me. But instead of bagging me as a trophy, he intended to run me ragged until I succumbed. “I might remain dead, but how do you know that I will survive?”

“You mean, what if you take your own life? The result will be the same for your loved ones.” He knocked the ash off his cigar. “By the way, we know about your family in France. Even a fifth cousin twice-removed will not be safe from me. Do not die, Mr Holmes, and do not come back to life. I will be watching you.”

With that, he tossed his cigar out the window and left the carriage. When the train arrived in Milan, I did not see him disembark. 

I went to the post office and asked if there was a communication for Lars Sigerson, the alias I had given Mycroft before leaving for the continent. The postal clerk checked the pigeon holes and handed me an envelope. The page inside was encrypted with the cipher Mycroft and I had used as boys. Decrypted, it read:

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I have made arrangements for Dr Watson to return to London. Having heard the news from Meiringen, I am not filled with hope. Still, knowing you as I do, I have not entirely dismissed the possibility that you have survived and are in hiding. I will wait to hear from you when you arrive in Milan, assuming that you have proceeded as we discussed._

_Because my movements are being watched, communication will be difficult. Do not take unnecessary risks._

_Mycroft_

It was dated May 8, over two months ago. No doubt he believed me dead after so many weeks. Remembering Moran’s words, I was sure that sending a telegram would be a mistake. I would have to make my way alone for the time being, keeping an eye on the news from London.

The money Caspari had given me soon ran out. Using the alias Monsignor Altamonte and my priestly garb, I was able to find lodging at a monastery just outside of Milan at no charge. I spent my days in contemplation; the monks did not question me. They were Franciscans, living a life of austerity, earning their keep by begging. Adopting their mendicant life, I was particularly skilled at this, so good, in fact, that I was cautioned not to bring in more money than the brothers required for their basic needs.

My contemplation was mainly given to the turn my fortunes had taken. My survival had seemed miraculous, and I had begun to think I might use the presumption of my death to my advantage. I had hoped to undermine Moriarty’s organisation, throw a wrench into his machinery in Europe, and return home to rally his opposition.

Now I cursed myself for a fool. Clearly I had underestimated Moriarty’s reach, and had overestimated my own ability to threaten him. His death had been a miscalculation, but it had not defeated him. He had planned meticulously so that others could carry on what he had begun. I’d thought of him as the spider in the centre of a great web, but he was not alone. All my energies were focused on him, my arch-enemy, thinking he wanted to spar with me.

But his genius lay not in his position as the leader of a criminal organisation; rather, it continued on in an organisation that could survive his death. An individual is mortal; a group committed to a cause can survive losses; new leaders step up and it continues.My entire pursuit of Moriarty, my research, the carefully-plotted raid intended to capture him and his top men— all of this had been aimed at plucking him from his web. And he had simply waited for me to be caught in that web like a buzzing fly. _A nuisance._

When Mycroft first brought him to my attention, he had interested me— a mathematician who used his great intellect to construct an infallible network of crime. Brilliant, though completely immoral. He fenced himself round with safeguards so cunningly devised that it was impossible to get evidence which would convict in a court of law. I was merely an inconvenience, an aggravation to him. _You must drop it,_ he told me.

I did not drop it. I could not.

Watson had felt the same, and expressed his willingness to help me bring the man down. What I hadn’t shared with him was the extent of Moriarty’s infiltration into the government. I had talked with Mycroft just before Watson and I left for Switzerland; in fact, he helped us escape in those last days. When I left England, it was my understanding that he would be in touch. Indeed, there was a telegram waiting for me when we arrived in Meiringen, and another in Milan.

But contacting him would be terribly risky now; I could not put him in danger. For years, I had lived independently, taking no money from my brother. What I realised in Milan was that his support had been of a different kind. He was the one I turned to when I was stumped on a case, the one who straightened out the tangles in my personal and professional lives. He did not heap affection on me, but he was always there when I needed him, calmly advising me and reassuring me.

I did not know how I could accomplish what needed to be done without his help. Mycroft was practically omniscient, I’d always thought. I was certain Watson believed me dead. The realisation that my brother also believed me dead was shattering. My own resourcefulness could take me far, but my dependence on him was now obvious to me. I missed my brother.

I would have to lie low for a while, I decided, if only so that they might relax their guard. Had I been a significant threat to these men, they would have killed me. Moran might be playing a game with me, but as long as the game was afoot, I would be waiting and watching as well. Getting back into England without his notice would be difficult, but I was desperate enough to attempt it. I would wait for my chance, and be ready to take it.

It was a lonely time. I have often travelled, sometimes for extended periods of time, and was never homesick on those journeys. When Watson came to live at 221B, home took on a new meaning, and I hated traveling without him, avoiding it when possible. Now the thought that I might never see him again was unbearable. I lay awake at night, thinking about it. He would believe me dead, and that was best, for now, but it anguished me to think of him grieving my death. Knowing that he had Mary was some comfort to me; she was a sensible woman and would not let him slip into despair.

I hoped, too, that Mycroft might understand what had happened and take action from his end. He knows every man at every level of power in the government, and could surely muster a resistance against any takeover. He would keep an eye on Watson, who might be outraged enough to attack Moran and his cronies. My dear Watson is a man of integrity; he would feel it his duty to denounce them. As he told me once, long ago, he is not a man made to sit in a blind, waiting for prey to appear. He is a man who must confront things. I feared for him.

The monastic life was not hard or disagreeable. I am somewhat ascetic by nature, and did not mind the meagre meals or the monotonous labour or the long hours of prayer and contemplation. I was given the duty of tending the beehives, under the supervision of Brother Giovanni. Summer turned into autumn.

Before I knew it, winter had arrived; I should have to wait until spring to think of leaving. And I knew someone would be watching, to see where I went, what I did.

I thought about many things while I sat in chapel or worked in the garden, but none of them were strictly religious. I am not an atheist, but neither am I orthodox. While not denying existence of the Almighty, most of what I think about God could rightly be called blasphemy. I do not believe in a personal God, or a petty God. The Divine Being does not sit on a throne and entertain petitions, or make judgments. The Alpha and Omega does not care tuppence for worship or cathedrals or any of the paraphernalia that attaches to religion, in my view. The Great I Am does not want to hear our version of what we think should happen, or entertain any bargaining chips we might offer Him. God only wants people to Listen. This would solve many of the world’s problems, but is hard for most of us, who are already thinking of the next thing we want to say while we ought to be listening.

But I did not only listen; I had many contentious arguments with the Almighty. If I have a mental picture of God, he looks a bit like my brother Mycroft with the beard of a biblical patriarch: world-weary, imposing, a bit cynical, and eternally patient with my foolishness. I ranted and raged, and imagined Him rolling His eyes a bit, reminding me, _do calm down, Sherlock. Patience is required, not panic._

I kept my theology to myself, however, and focused my thoughts on the future.Being able to lie down in relative safety, confident that I would not wake with a gun in my face, allowed my mind to review what had happened, and contemplate what needed to happen next. I am not a religious man, as I’ve said, but I do believe in inspiration, whether it comes from a God I can barely imagine, or from the mind He gave me.

I was a very different man from the one who looked up from a microscope and saw a broken, dispirited army doctor looking back at me with hope— and horror. Yes, I remembered that day in the lab, how I had flapped and babbled and appeared an absolute buffoon, while Watson looked at me with wonder. I had assumed he would back away, but he didn’t. He was poor and ill and needed a place to live, which was reason enough, but I should have asked him at some point, _what made you stay? Why did you agree to share rooms with this madman?_

I wonder what would have come of that madman, had he not met John Watson. I hadn’t always been a virtuous man, or even a good man. But I could not accept that loving John Watson was a sin. He was the making of me, the salvation of a man who hadn’t enough common sense even to realise he needed saving.

And now, I had to save him. And the way to do that was to do nothing.

Spring arrived, nearly a year gone by since that day at the falls. As I contemplated whether I should leave yet, the Abbott Toloni, head of the monastery, paid me a visit in my cell.

“I have been praying for you,” he said.

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“They are looking for you.”

“Who?” I asked, though I already was certain of the answer.

“Men have been asking about you. Not by name, but it is clearly you they seek.”

“I must leave then.”

Toloni smiled. “Where can you find that is safer than here? Outside of our duties, we are forbidden to speak. Stay a while longer.”

I stayed in my foxhole.

Another year went by. I felt frustrated, hiding while things were undoubtedly happening in London, but there was nothing more useful that I could do than let everyone think I was dead. I devoted myself to my bees.

The Abbott found me among the hives one spring day. I was putting up a new hive in case the swarm wanted new quarters. If I did not do this, Brother Giovanni said, some bees might leave. If I kept them fed and gave them more room, they would stay and make honey for us.

“You take good care of your little friends,” he said.

“Mostly, I just encourage them to stay.”

“You are thinking about leaving.”

“I have been, yes. Not because I think the hunters have given up, but because I am restless.” We walked away from the hives. I removed my veil and looked into his face. “I have faced Death, but I am not alive. Instead, I am in a kind of Purgatory, biding my time, purging my sins. But I cannot stay forever. I don’t belong here.”

“Where will you go?”

I considered lying to him. “They will expect me to go east, over the Balkans, maybe as far as the Orient.”

“You believe you are still being watched?”

“I don’t know, but it’s safer to assume that my movements will be noted.”

He nodded. “Brother Bartholomew has been planning a pilgrimage. He will be travelling to Bucharest, then through Persia. Tibet is his destination; he may spend as long as two years there.”

In a month’s time, I had packed a small rucksack with a few essentials. Bartholomew and I met in the chapel, where the Abbott laid his hands on us and blessed us.

“God go with you both,” he said. Then he embraced me and pressed something into my hand, a purse filled with coins.

We walked to the main road, the one leading east or west. There we paused.

“I will pray for you,” I told him.

He smiled and took my hand. “And I for you.”

We parted then. I looked back at him once as he headed east, towards Romania. He walked almost jauntily, eager for the journey, stretching out his long legs and welcoming the distance. I watched until I could barely make out his dark, curly hair bobbing along the road. The Abbott was right; he did look a lot like Sherlock Holmes.

In my monkish garb, my head tonsured, I headed west under a new alias, walking humbly, like a man ever mindful that God is watching.

Here began weeks and months that blurred, one day into the next. 

I made my way from Italy into France, labouring in factories and on farms. I was Bartolomeo Constantin, I was Jacques Renard, I was Lars Sigerson, I was Hugo Altamont. I was whoever the situation needed me to be. I worked, slept in barns and under the sky, and walked when it was time to move on. I ate when I was paid, starved when I could not find work. I read newspapers when I could get my hands on one.

What I learned was that Moran and his minions now dominated Parliament and had attacked anyone who spoke against them. Watson was one of their favourite targets. As I feared, he had written a letter defending me in response to the lies of Moriarty’s brother. I knew what that would mean. These people do not attack openly; they smear instead, using innuendo and implication to destroy. My John was an honest man, an honorable man. He would not be prepared for what they would do.

When 1893 arrived, I was working in a textile mill near Lyon. It was dull work, and I was a prisoner to the long hours. I preferred agricultural work, but it was winter and much warmer to sleep in a factory than in a barn. I had thus far seen no sign that I was still being followed. The ruse with Brother Bartholomew might have succeeded, but Moran was a hunter, not easily distracted from his prey.

A plan was taking shape in my mind, and I hoped that someone was watching.

In the evenings, after we’d cleaned up from the days’ work, I would sit, smoking my pipe, listening to the local dialects. My French is Parisian and very proper, even upper-class, but I’d been striving to learn the regional variations so as not to stand out. I had grown a beard and wore my hair longer, hoping not to resemble Sherlock Holmes (or Brother Bartholomew) too much.

I thought of the many lives that were lost to the machines we laboured over. Being something of a mechanic, I was given responsibility for maintaining them, which was more interesting than the monotony of running a loom. But I had begun to hate the economies that the owner would force upon us. The machines were not safe, and many women and children worked in these dangerous conditions.

I had heard that Britain was considering an Amendment to the Debtor’s Actthat might force more people into the virtual slavery of the workhouses and factories. The new provision would put debtors into workhouses if they owed more than they could pay off, given their present circumstances. Once in the system, their debt could be bought and sold by institutions and individuals. This meant virtual slavery for debtors, who could be forced into hard labour until their debt was paid, which might be years, if they survived so long.

This was worse even than the type of labour I was now doing. I might pack up and leave at any time, seek a new position. Under the new act, a British debtor had no such freedom.

When Watson first came to live at the Baker Street rooms, he had assumed his brother’s debts and was struggling to pay them off. Alone, I don’t think he could have done it, even as an employed doctor. Since he could not work, he was in arrears on the loans, and this only added to the despair of losing his brother, being wounded, and having a small pension that barely gave him enough to live on. I’d helped him to the extent I could, but he was a proud man, and hated owing anyone. Again, I was thankful that he now had Mary to manage his purse. A frugal woman, she would not allow him to borrow money.

I fell into a reverie, remembering those first, anxious days living with Watson. I smiled, thinking of how we had each pined for the other, finally recognising the ridiculousness of our situation when we came face to face in a club, each of us seeking an illicit liaison as a substitute for the man we could not have.

Nostalgia is painful. I longed for what I had once taken for granted.

“You are missing someone, I think,” a voice near me said.

I turned and saw a woman. She might have been thirty, but looked fifty. Thin, greying hair, lined face. I did not need to ask her story. She’d had children, more than one, with a man who’d died. In the end, they hadn’t loved one another. He drank, and she worked to feed their children. He gambled, and she starved. He died, and she was lonely.

I smiled briefly. “Yes.”

“She is far away.”

“Yes.”

“You know that she is unfaithful,” she said. “All women are.”

“Then it’s good she’s a man.”

She laughed. “Do you have tobacco?”

I took out the pouch of cheap tobacco I carried and handed it to her. It was terrible stuff, really, but I no longer smoked for enjoyment. I filled my pipe because it kept me from noticing that my belly was empty. Other than that, nicotine was just a filthy habit that I found comforting. I hadn’t seen myself in a mirror in ages, and supposed that I also looked older, having spent over a year in pointless, gruelling labour.

“They don’t like us smoking, you know.” She filled a small pipe. “I’m Fleur.” She looked nothing like the flower she was named for. A faded flower, pale from lack of sunlight, perhaps.

“Mm,” I acknowledged. "Renard."

“Burn the place down.” She laughed. “My children stay with my sister. Do you want to fuck?”

It took me a moment to unravel this string of non-sequiturs. I wasn’t interested, but it’s never a good idea to imply you don’t want to sleep with a woman because she’s unattractive. At the same time, I wasn’t sure what term would explain to her what I was without opening myself to overtures from men. I hadn’t felt sexual desire for months. Even when I thought of John, I was longing for him, his presence, all the small things about him that I loved. I would have gladly given up sex just to have that.

“I’m a priest,” I said. “Vow of celibacy.”

She shrugged. “I’ve fucked priests before.” But she smiled, and didn’t push me to explain myself.

As it happened, that was the night the mill caught fire. I awoke to smoke, screams, and the fires of Hell.

I helped several people to escape, but didn’t see my smoking companion. Perhaps her pipe had set off the conflagration; I had made sure mine was out when I lay down. I watched as first one wall, and then another fell in, and then the final collapse, the entire mill swallowed up in the flames. In the confusion, I slipped away.

Grinning at Death once more, I headed north, to Paris.

**Author's Note:**

> * The French name Renard and the German name Fuchs both mean “fox.”  
> ** "Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.” Luke 9:58. Caspari is not comparing Holmes to Jesus; he is merely saying that Holmes/Renard is a refugee and must hide where he can.  
> *** Inferno Canto V: In which Dante tells the story of Paolo and Francesca, doomed to Hell for their illicit love.


End file.
